I hung a light above the table, put the canvas on a wheel. Set a weight to swinging over it just to see what stayed still. You never ask what answers back. I took the measure of the distance. Wrote the numbers on the wall. Every time I found the center, the shadow moved across it all. Across it all. Wild and structured. Beautiful and dangerous. Nothing touches the canvas, still the whole room changes. Still the whole room listens. The purpose is in the pattern. The purpose is in the pattern. The purpose is in the pattern. By daylight every part has a number: wire, bearing, weight, and frame. By night I watch the same small movement make a thing I cannot name. Say it plain. Say what changed. I can make the switch obey me. I can keep the light alive. But the circle has two centers: where it is, and where I stand. And where you stood before. Am I a ghost? My hand is on the switch. Am I the one who built this room - or the one inside of it? You heard us in the wiring. Wild and structured. Beautiful and dangerous. I can keep the light on. Can't tell the shadow where to go. It already knows your name. The purpose is in the pattern. The purpose is in the pattern.
